


I Will Look for You Till Eternity

by sonofabiscuit77



Series: I love Soulless!Sam [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014-Dean, Angst, Dark, M/M, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lavishsqualor wrote: "something I can't understand why there's not more of: soulless!Sam/future!Dean" and I thought... yes, that absolutely must be written! So, have some Robo!Sam meeting up with bad-ass Dean in the The End 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Look for You Till Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lavishsqualor for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. Thanks so much, m'dear, for that pairing prompt and I hope this works for you. Thanks also to my awesome beta dear_tiger for her wonderful help as always! Title stolen from The Ronnettes' Be My Baby

The mattress tilted and jogged. Dean cracked his eyes open to see Sam slide out of bed and cross the bare wood floor. In the old days, Sam had refused to even take his shoes off, never mind his socks, whenever they’d camped out in all those derelict, abandoned houses, always so damn prissy about dirt and dust and splinters on his bare feet. Right now, Sam seemed barely aware of it. He was standing, completely butt-naked, in front of the dusty, streaked window, staring outside. The moon slanted through the dirty panes, casting criss-crossed markings over his body, making him look oddly majestic in the cold white light. 

Dean blinked and let his eyes run over his brother’s body, appreciating the view. Sam really was very well put together. It was something that could still flummox him, send a wave of heat rushing through his blood as his gaze lingered, noting the glimmering sheen of lube, sweat and come smeared across Sam’s ass crack and tops of his thighs, reminding him with a dirty twist of his gut of what they’d been doing only hours earlier. He felt his own flaccid cock, lying pleasantly sated and sticky across his belly, start to thicken. 

As if he could read Dean’s mind, Sam half-turned around, putting himself in profile to Dean. “You’re watching me,” he said. 

“Just admiring the view. No law against that,” Dean said. 

Sam lifted one eyebrow. “No law against ogling your brother’s ass after you’ve fucked him into the mattress? Oh yes, that’s completely legal, Dean.” 

Dean sat up, back propped up against the cold wall, covers pooling in his lap. “Like anyone gives a shit.” 

“I guess.” 

Dean watched him turn away from the window and stroll across the floor to the rickety table in the corner. Sam tossed aside the messy piles of maps and papers and retrieved the chipped tooth mug and half-empty bottle of rotgut whiskey. He held it up, the moonlight playing over the glass, sending shadows sparkling over the wall above Dean’s head. He twisted the cap off the bottle and poured himself a measure. 

Sam used to give a shit, Dean thought, Sam used to care about that kind of crap, the... cue drum roll... big, scary, incestuous part of their relationship. Then again, Dean used to care too. But the old recriminations and fear and self-loathing hadn’t troubled him for years, and certainly not since Lucifer had taken his brother’s body and turned him into his favourite meat-suit. 

“C’mere, give me some of that,” Dean said. 

Sam paused with the mug to his lips and gave Dean a considering look, like he was trying to decide if Dean was worth his interest. He took a sip, lowered the mug and padded back across the floor to the bed, sinking back down into his own spot. Dean reached over and pried the mug from his hand and took a long swallow, feeling Sam’s eyes on him, tracking the movement of his throat. 

“What?” Dean asked

“Nothing. Just – you look tired, man. You need to sleep.” 

Dean snorted, “Right. ‘Cause sleeping in the same bed as someone who never fuckin’ sleeps is the best way to get some quality rest.” 

“Dude, it’s not my fault I don’t sleep.” 

“Whatever.” Dean handed him the empty mug and slid back down under the covers. He could still feel Sam’s eyes on him, but he tried his best to ignore them, closing his eyes and turning his face into the pillow. He felt the bed shake again as Sam got back to his feet, and then the soft creak of the floorboards as Sam crossed the room. Dean gritted his teeth, said, “Hey, maybe you should get your own cabin, quit bugging me all the damn time.” 

The creaking paused and Sam said, “If that’s what you want.” 

Dean swallowed. They didn’t sleep in separate rooms. Even when things were bad, as long as they were together, they always got one room. They always slept in one room. That was how it worked, that was how it had always worked. Even when Sam was fucking around with Ruby, even when he was getting high on fucking demon blood, even when things were about as bad as they could be between them, they didn’t get separate rooms. But this Sam – this Sam didn’t seem to have that same respect for the past, for their shared traditions, for how things were supposed to work between them. This Sam just didn’t give a crap. 

 

** 

 

It happened a month, maybe two months ago, Dean stopped counting after a while. The perimeter alarm was ringing and Dean was unprepared, so totally unprepared as he strode through the camp towards the disturbance, something niggling, burning, jiggling loose in his head as his gaze swooped and landed on the figure sprawled across the ground. He hesitated, staring helplessly – the angle of the head, the splay of the long, long legs, the hunched, angry shape of the shoulders – it was – it couldn’t – it couldn’t be… Something sputtered alive in his chest, his pulse revving like his baby’s engine on a cold day as he crept forward and stumbled to a halt beside his guys. The figure lying tied and cuffed on the ground – the person – the thing with that face tilted its head back and looked right at him. 

He could feel all their eyes on him, his guys waiting for the order, and the thing on the ground – the thing that looked just like Sam, just exactly like Sam. Except it wasn’t Sam. It couldn’t be Sam. Sam was still Lucifer’s bitch. Dean fucking knew that. 

Dean swallowed, licked his lips, said, “Who – what are you? What are you doing here?” 

The Sam-thing ignored the question and just continued to stare back at Dean with the same impatient, irritated glint in his eyes before he pushed out a breath and said, “Is this really necessary, Dean? I’m here to help you. I was sent here to help you.” And he was using that pissy, bitchy, Sammy tone of voice that was just so fucking Sam that any come-back Dean might’ve managed immediately shriveled up and died. 

He leaned forward and knocked the thing wearing his little brother’s face unconscious with the butt of his rifle. 

Dean chained him up, snapped on the cuffs and tied the extra-strong bindings himself, trusting no one else to do it to Winchester standards – the kind of standards that Sam would respect. He kept watch as he – the thing – lay unconscious, sprawled over the splintered wood floor of one of their empty storage cabins. A trickle of blood was rolling down his cheek, some more dried blood matted into his greasy hair, a bruise blossoming across his right temple where Dean had struck him. 

Dean knew he should call for Cas, but he did nothing except watch and wait, his back against the cold wall, rifle on his knees, flask of holy water clasped in his right hand. He waited for what felt like a long time before he reluctantly got to his feet and started the tests. He ran every test he knew, and when they all came back clear, he sank back down to the floor and waited some more. He ignored the hunger pangs and the cramping in his legs from sitting so still for so long, just taking his time to stare and categorise and watch. There were a few details that were different: this Sam’s hair was longer and straighter, there was a thick jagged scar over his wrist and snaking up under his cuff, another scar on the left side of his jaw. Aside from that, he looked stronger, harder, healthier, and even bigger than in Dean’s memory. 

He had no idea how much time had passed by the time the Sam replicant started to stir and open his eyes. Dean watched him slowly shift himself up onto his hands and knees, moving as much as the bindings and chains would allow. He blinked at Dean and pulled on the chain attached to his right wrist, the metal links jangled and clanked absurdly loud in the silent cabin. 

“A bit kinky, even for you,” he said. His voice was cracked, dry and raspy sounding, and Dean stared at the blood crusted in his hairline, the dried chapped skin of his lips. 

“What are you? Why do you look like that?” he demanded. 

“Because this is how I look, Dean. I’m Sam.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

The thing pretending to be Sam shrugged. “Yeah, I am. I’m not your Sam, not from this universe at least. But I’m still Sam Winchester.” 

Dean held his breath, licked his lips again, trying to buy himself time, trying to process it. 

“Cas – the Cas in my world – sent me here. He thought you could do with my help,” Sam added, using another tone of voice Dean was so familiar with – the helpful, I-swear-we’re-just-here-to-help-sir/ma’am voice. 

Dean forced out a breath, a strangled, pained crack of laughter. He got to his feet, joints creaking, making for the door. 

“Hey, Dean, if you’re going outside, could you get me some water? I’m dying of thirst here!” Sam called after him. 

He did fetch some water, along with Cas, dragging the former angel out of whatever freaking orgy or meditation crap he was in the middle of. Cas followed him back to the cabin, unshaven and greasy-haired, and reeking of pot, carrying on a one-sided conversation which Dean ignored. He unlocked the door and hauled Cas inside. 

Cas stumbled against the closed door and stared at Sam. He blinked then said in his stoner drawl, “Whoa, now this – this is really interesting.” 

“Is he possessed?” Dean demanded. “Is it Lucifer? Is he in there?” 

Cas tilted his head a little, then turned to look at Dean, a decided look in his eyes. “No,” he said confidently. “I can confirm that this Sam is angel-free.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Dean, I think I would know if one of my brothers were here in this room with us right now.” 

Dean nodded, letting out a long relieved breath and bowing his head. He padded forward, then knelt down on the floor in front of Sam. He held out the flask of water to his lips. Sam looked at him before he tilted his head back, baring his neck and giving Dean the best angle to feed him the water. Sam was as thirsty as he’d claimed to be, he swallowed greedily, the water wetting his cracked lips, running over his chin and dripping onto the dirty floor. He coughed and spluttered and twisted his head back when he was done and Dean placed the cap back on his flask, unable to stop staring at his wet mouth and chin and the tears in his eyes from coughing. Dean’s fingers tingled with the urge to reach out and wipe Sam’s face clean, to feel Sam’s lips and skin against his fingertips. Sam stared back at him, his eyes big and wet, and Dean watched as his lips silently shaped his name. 

He jerked backwards, stumbling a little as he regained his feet. He felt Cas’s hand come out to steady him, a reassuring pressure on his arm, and he tugged himself free of it, folding his arms across his chest and fumbling to replace the flask in his jacket pocket. 

“He says he’s from another freaking dimension,” he said finally. “He says that another version of you sent him here.” 

“Really?” said Cas, brightening, returning his attention to Sam. “Another version of me sent you here?” 

“Yeah, except he was better shaven and much better dressed. What happened to your trench coat?” 

Cas pursed his lips and shook his head. “I really can’t remember.” 

Dean snorted. “Enough small talk. You gonna fill us in on why exactly your Cas sent you here?” 

Sam turned his eyes back to Dean. “I told you. He thought you could do with my help.” 

“And what about your world? Why the fuck doesn’t that need your help? What did the other me – assuming there even was another me in your world – think about you abandoning ship and jumping in some freaking dimension hopping DeLorean?” 

There was a flicker of something across Sam’s face and then he pursed his lips. “I don’t think you want me to answer that, Dean.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Dean said. He took a step closer until he was looming over Sam. He swallowed, repeated, “What happened in that other world? What happened to that other me?” 

Sam took his sweet time answering, and when he did Dean was expecting it, expecting it and braced for it. “You’re dead. The other Dean – the Dean in my world – is dead.” He hesitated, then he added quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

Dean snorted again, turning around and putting his back to Sam. He was trembling, his belly clenching, and he had no freaking idea why. So what if some other Dean – some Dean he’d never met, never heard of – some Dean from another freaking dimension was dead. It didn’t matter. It made not a jot of difference to the fucked up world he was currently inhabiting. 

“Dean, there’s something else, something else I gotta tell you,” Sam said. Slowly Dean turned around, looked back at him. “I have no soul.” 

**

 

He watched Sam pad towards the table and pick up the Colt from its place nestled among the piles of maps and etchings: their big plan of action for tomorrow. Sam raised the gun, cocked it at Dean, barrel pointed directly at Dean’s chest – head and heart – always gotta be the head and heart. Dean didn’t flinch, the ghost of his father’s voice echoing in his head: _Don’t point a gun at someone unless you mean it..._ He wondered if this Sam had gotten the same lessons from Dad, but discarded the thought as soon as it’d arisen. It wasn’t like it mattered. He met Sam’s gaze straight-on, defiant, and watched the corner of Sam’s mouth quirk up a little before he lowered the Colt. 

“I have a feeling that neither of us is coming back from tomorrow,” Sam said. He twirled the Colt in his hand. “Do you really think this is going to work?” 

“It’s supposed to kill anything. And it ain’t like we got any better ideas,” Dean said. 

“No, that’s true.” Sam placed it back on the table. He sighed, cracked his neck muscles. “Man, I wish I could remember what happened to Lucifer in my world.” 

Dean said nothing, just watched in silence as Sam pushed himself off the table and stalked back across the room towards Dean. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, on Dean’s side, hip brushing up against Dean’s thigh. “You’re not gonna sleep now, Dean, and I don’t sleep. So, we should pass all this dead time some other way. Don’t you think?” 

Dean smirked, turned his head to meet Sam’s eyes. He reached out, ran his hand up Sam’s naked back, along his spine and up to his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair. He tugged him down so their faces were bare inches apart, Sam’s breath rippling over his mouth. The kiss was sharp and hard, just this side of painful, as it always was with this Sam, none of old Sam’s (his Sam’s) tenderness in his touches and kisses – which was… good, Dean guessed. There was no pretence with this Sam. Sam cradled his face, pushing him back down into the bed, climbing up and over him, thrusting aside the covers between them until their naked skin touched. Dean’s eyes ran down his body, down his hard, muscled chest to his flat belly with the twisted scar, to his cock, large and fat and full. He licked his lips and could practically feel Sam’s eyes upon him, that knowing smirk twisting up the corner of his mouth. 

This Sam was different. He was more unabashed in his desires, but also more mechanical, more straight-forward, none of the other Sam’s occasional and bizarre shyness. Dean knew he’d slept with other members of their little camp, that he’d joined Cas’s orgies on a couple of occasions. Hell, before Sam got here, Dean had taken his pleasures where he could get them, he wasn’t judging. But having Sam back (even this mechanical, soulless version) had pretty much put a dampener on anything – or anyone – else for him. 

“Roll over, Dean,” Sam urged. 

Dean gave him a look before rolling onto his front, pressing his erection down into the mattress, burying his face in the pillow. He felt Sam slide his hands down his sides and give his hips a squeeze. The mattress tilted and Dean heard the cap on the lube snap off as Sam shifted once more. Dean tensed as he felt Sam’s forefinger, sticky with lube, circle his hole and then smoothly, slickly, slip inside. Dean’s breath hitched and he shivered, pushing himself back onto Sam’s finger, feeling Sam’s other hand grip his hip once more and guide him up, until he was on his knees, head bent and palms splayed across the mattress, fingers hooking in the loose sheets as Sam pushed another finger inside. 

Sam was quick, deft and perfunctory, opening him up just as much as was necessary. The old Sam used to take his time opening Dean up, teasing him to the point of orgasm and back again. He would layer kisses along Dean's neck and down the ridges of his spine, affectionate and needy in how he’d nuzzle his stubbled cheeks against Dean’s own and lick the corners of Dean’s mouth, smiling into Dean's skin. He’d take his sweet time, getting off on hearing his big brother beg for him before he’d finally give in – shove his cock inside Dean and fuck him hard enough for the bed to slam against the wall and chunks of plaster to rain down upon them. 

At least this Sam knew how to do that last part right. 

 

**

Their first mission after Sam dropped the s-bomb on him and Cas went well, all things considered. Sam was good, even sharper and quicker than Dean remembered, no hesitation when he raised his weapon to shoot an infected girl in the head and splatter her brains all over the side of the jeep. He barely blinked when he lowered his arm, just kicked her corpse out of the way and jumped into the back of the jeep beside the rest of the guys. Dean caught his eye on the journey back to base, and Sam jerked his head minutely towards Harris. Dean nodded in response. He’d seen it too, noticed Harris tugging down his sleeve, that haunted look in his eyes, the pallor to his skin. Harris was bit, and it was only a matter of time before he turned. 

When they got back to the camp, Dean cracked open a couple of beers to share around, then he took out his gun and put a bullet into the back of Harris’s skull. Once again, Sam didn’t even flinch, just continued sipping his beer, watching Harris’s body slump to the ground with a barely interested look in his eyes. Dean turned away and tried to imagine what the old Sam would say; the shocked and pitched tenor of his voice, the horrified look in his eyes. He swallowed and turned back again, meeting Sam’s gaze over the roof of the jeep. For the first time since he’d laid eyes on Dean, Sam looked almost impressed. Dean guessed that this was what having no soul meant – you didn’t give a shit when your brother ganked one of his own men right in front of you.

He gave the order to Duke and Sully to burn the body and asked Sam to accompany him back to his cabin. Sam obeyed without comment, ambling past the rest of Dean’s guys, most of whom were giving him vaguely haunted looks – after all, the only version of Sam they were used to seeing was the one currently playing footsie with Lucifer. 

Sam looked around the place Dean had called home for the past three years and took a seat on the edge of the unmade bed, still sipping at his beer. “I see you still can’t clean up after yourself,” he said. 

Dean crouched down, pulled out a duffle from the bottom of the supplies closet in the corner of the room, and slung it onto the bed. 

“I thought you might like the change of clothes. It ain’t easy getting shit in your ginormo size,” he said. 

Sam nodded and balanced the can of beer between his thighs as he rifled his hand through the duffle of clothes and other things that had once belonged to his alterna-self. “Thanks, man. Cas didn’t exactly give me time to pack before he magicked my ass into this shit-hole world.” He raised his head and looked at Dean with that penetrating, unnerving stare. “So, you gonna tell me what happened to that other version of me here?” 

“You gonna tell me what happened to that other version of me in your world?” Dean retorted. 

Sam’s mouth twitched and he shook his head. “No. I told you, I don’t remember. I was in hell then Cas pulled me out – well what bits of me he could get – and then he sent me here. He just said you were dead. Didn’t say how or where or even where you were.” 

“And you didn’t think to ask him? Or does having no soul mean you don’t you give a shit now about that sort of thing?” 

Sam held his gaze for what felt like a long time, before he pushed out a breath and shrugged. “Does it even matter?” 

Dean bowed his head, a curious feeling of inevitability and relief was sliding over him, as easy and welcome as an alcohol haze. “No, I guess it doesn’t,” he said. He waved a hand at the duffle bag. “Sam’s – your old Taurus is in there too. I figured you might like it. That’s if you ever used one. I don’t know. Freaking alternate universe shit always confuses me.” 

For the first time since he got there, Sam actually looked happy about something. He stuck his hand back in the duffle and pulled out the old Taurus and ammo. He lifted it up, checked the sites and slammed in the ammo. When he was done, he looked up again, said, “You’ve been cleaning it.” 

“It’s a good weapon. Shouldn’t neglect weapons maintenance, even in a zombie apocalypse. Especially in a zombie apocalypse.” 

Sam smirked and nodded. He placed his beer on the upturned crate that served as a nightstand and turned all his attention onto the revolver. “It hasn’t been used in a while,” he said. 

Dean nodded, pressing his lips together as fiercely as he could manage. He watched Sam place the weapon carefully, almost reverently, onto the crate and get to his feet. He stood his ground as Sam approached and paused directly in front of him. He felt his breath catch as Sam pried the beer out of his hand and set it down on the table by his hip and then raised that same hand to the side of Dean’s neck, thumb against his jaw. He tilted Dean’s head back and bridged the final inches between them. 

“I’m hoping that some things still stay the same, whatever universe we’re in,” he said, and he lowered his mouth to Dean’s. 

The kiss was direct and hard. Dean felt his breath catch, his lips parting to let Sam inside, hands flying up to cradle his face. Sam pulled away and Dean bowed his head, his breath coming tight, his stomach clenched up.

He cast a look at Sam; his eyes were dark, glittering as they met Dean’s. He licked his lips, tongue tracing the path where Dean’s lips had been. “You taste the same,” he said. 

“You don’t,” Dean said. 

 

**

 

“It’s getting light,” Sam observed. 

He was lying with one arm tossed over his head, the covers pushed down to his waist, his skin covered in a light sheen of sweat despite the cold air. Dean turned onto his side, pillowed his head on one hand and looked at him. Feeling Dean’s eyes on him, Sam rolled his head on the pillow and peered at him from the corner of his eye. In the light, he was all shadows and pale skin, eerie and abstract seeming. 

Dean thought about Sammy at age sixteen, the first time they’d ever touched each other _that_ way. That summer when they’d been living in that stifling, claustrophobic trailer park in Oklahoma, and Sam had been so angry, vibrating out of his skin with heat and frustration, and Dean hadn’t been much better. It’d been inevitable, he’d thought afterwards, the two of them sparring and snapping and circling each other. Sam’s teenage fury so barely contained until the night Dean’d gotten back from a bar to find his little brother half passed out drunk on the ripped pleather couch. Dean had tried to carry him to bed and Sam had stirred in his arms, pressed his hot damp mouth to Dean’s bare neck and grabbed for Dean’s cock through his threadbare jeans, slurring into Dean’s skin, _“D’you think about it, Dean? ‘Cause I do, I think about it all the fuckin’ time. Think about you, think about you so much, Dean…”_

Dean had been drunk too, that’d been his excuse afterwards when the real freaking out had started. Not that Sam had let him freak out for long. The following morning, he’d woken up to Sam clambering over him, pushing him down into the bed and licking a trail down his chest to tug at his pubic hair with his teeth, eyes glittering as he looked up at Dean through his eyelashes, little pink tongue playing over his lips, fingers tracing Dean’s hipbones. 

He thought about the last time he’d seen his Sam, his brother, his real brother – at that truck stop in Oregon. He thought about the phone calls he’d ignored and how Sam’s voice had sounded, tinny and far away, unable to mask the panic underneath. _Lucifer says I’m his vessel..._ He thought about all the many things he could’ve done differently to not be where they are now. He thought about the Dean in this Sam’s world, about what happened to him, about how he died, and where he was right now. He thought about Sam’s soul and wondered where it was and what had happened to split him from it, and what the fuck Cas had been playing at to fuck up so badly. 

“You wanna go again?” Sam said. 

Dean snorted. “One last time, huh? For old time’s sake?” 

“If you like. I was thinking more of a way to pass the time. We got another hour before sunrise.” 

In an hour the sun would rise and they’d go out on their mission. Most of them – all of them probably – were not going to make it back. He would see the devil wearing his brother’s face and he would die today. He was pretty sure about that. He could feel it coming close, looming up over him as he’d never felt it before. All those other times, those near brushes and those very real brushes, none of those times had it felt like this. 

He wondered if after he died he would get to see his Sam again. 

“Whatever you do, whatever happens, you just make sure we get that shot,” he said. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t you dare hesitate.”

Sam looked at him, and smiled slowly. “You can count on me.” 

 

THE END


End file.
